


Hello Again

by Anglophile_in_Denial



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Memories, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglophile_in_Denial/pseuds/Anglophile_in_Denial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fight, Hawke thinks about how far Fenris has come, and how far he has to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello Again

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I had to write up after over-analyzing Fenris' speech and movement in my far too many playthroughs of DA2. This work is pretty much unedited, so be kind.

It turned her stomach sometimes, watching him. Which was utterly ridiculous if she thought about it. Marian adored Fenris, loved him far more than she would ever admit, even to their little circle of misfits. Of course, she had admitted it to a few, usually under the influence of alcohol. Varric, damn him, seemed to take great pleasure in teasing at the information to everyone he met, though he never said it out righ. One of Marian’s greatest joys was simply being around Fenris, and it was one of the few luxuries she’d formed a habit of allowing herself to have. She would settle next to him in front of the fire for reading lessons, which now consisted of her watching him read more than teaching him anything. She was always enraptured by his utter fascination in the books, no matter their subject, how he held them gingerly as if they’d crumble in his grip, how his brow furrowed in concentration as he read. Her captivation with him poured into more dangerous times as well. She was guilty of being distracted by him in the heat of battle on many occasions, enthralled by his grace in battle, the easy strength it took for him to wield that ridiculous sword, how he protected everyone, even if he said he couldn’t stand them. She’d lost count of the number of times Varric had ended up saving her neck when she was distracted, always giving her knowing glances and a little smirk. Or worse, the number of times Isabella had saved her from a knife and ruthlessly teased her later.

Despite all of that, it was so hard to watch him at times.

When they’d met, Fenris was a hunted, and it was obvious. He’d been constantly looking for someone around the next corner, expecting a knife in the back, watching every person that entered The Hanged Man as if they were another slaver there to catch him and take him back to Tevinter, back to Danarius. Despite his every effort not to, he had continued with little habits, little quirks that marked his past as a slave. Though Fenris was far from obedient and docile, far from timid, his mannerisms, his speech, even his demeanor at times, were that of someone who wore chains. Even invisible ones. Marian couldn’t blame him for that, no one could, and Marian would slit the throat of anyone who dared shove it in Fenris’ face, but it was still there. It was all he’d ever known, or at least all he remembered knowing.

In the years since, Fenris had come so very far. He’d broken many of the habits, or altered them. He’d changed his speech patterns, though he still had a tendency to say things like ‘I am yours.’ and ‘Tell me, and it is done.’ though the former always set her heart to hammering in her chest, it still reduced him to a thing in a way, and the latter was offering his service, as if that was the most valuable thing he could give. He no longer avoided eye contact with her and others, the inward hunch of his had gotten better, and he smiled and laughed easier. Marian was so proud of him for that, knowing that every little change was an immense victory, even if he didn’t think about it or felt it insignificant.

Yet there were still times when it all came back and it made her sick. When they argued, Fenris seemed to have two default reactions. The first was of rage. Rage that had him lashing out viciously at her, lyrium marks glowing in his anger, voice spitting out venomous words and threats. This terrified others, either afraid of his anger turning on them, or of what he may do to her. Though she never feared him, knowing he would regain his control long before so much as bruising her. His second instinct turned him cold and empty. He’d withdraw into himself, shoulders hunching more as if to shield himself, become unnoticeable, hands fidgeting in front of himself, long fingers twisting together, those damned gauntlets clinking against each other.  His eyes would darken with memories and thoughts as they drifted from her face to the floor, avoiding her gaze at all costs. And his speech changed. No more ‘I’, ‘me’, or ‘my’, as if his thoughts and words, his opinions and desires, no longer held any weight. He’d ultimately retreat from Hawke, either leaving her side altogether, or retreating to some other corner of the mansion. He’d sit in silence, never speaking, shying away from attention and conversation.

These were the moments that hurt Hawke the most. How was she supposed to help him? She was just some sarcastic upstart from the middle of nowhere, who just happened to stumble into trouble and magically get praise for it. How the hell was she supposed to help a slave learn how to live? How to be a free? This wasn’t something she could afford to screw up. If she did anything that hurt Fenris….she couldn’t handle the thought. Just another person she loved that she let down. First her father who she could never live up to, then the brother she’d failed to protect, then a sister she’d left to the circle and the whims of an ever more insane Templar, and her mother now grew more distant by the day because of Marian’s ineptitude and weakness. She couldn’t lose Fenris too.

So instead of trying to fix him, instead of trying to go into the darkness and pull him out, she just waited for him. Settling on the floor by his feet, she would carefully lean against one of his legs, ever sensitive to his dislike of contact. Sometimes she’d do nothing, simply sipping at a glass of wine and staring at the fireplace, watching embers leap from it to dance into oblivion. Sometimes she’d read to him, usually one of Varric’s stories that would lead to laughter and commentary from them both on any other occasion. And yet other times, she’d just talk, rambling on about their latest adventure, a conversation she’d had with one of their companions, a ridiculous, under-paid job she’d ultimately carry out, too many years of poverty keeping her from being able to turn it down. Most of her monologues were simply whatever happened to pop into her mind, but always something he could relate to. The ridiculousness of Kirkwall and its problems, the foolishness of their enemies, the time spent with her friends,  _their_  friends, a point she reiterated to him time and time again. For all Fenris’ grumbling and threats, she knew he trusted these people as much as she did. Cared for them.

And Fenris would sit there and listen, or perhaps he didn’t and simply let her stay. He wouldn’t move or speak. Sometimes he would be so still and silent, that if she hadn’t heard the faint sound of his breath or felt the warmth of his leg pressed against her side, she’d believe him some statue. But eventually, sometimes quickly after she’d come, sometimes not until she was dozing in their silence, or her voice was raw from speaking, he would move. His long fingers would shift, brushing the short ends of her hair gently, and she’d hear his voice, the sound soothing her nerves and filling her with relief.

“Hawke…”

She would turn then, catching his hand before he could pull it away and bring it to her cheek, leaning into it and looking up at him with a faint smile.

“Hello again.” She murmured.

And for that one moment, that one tiny moment, she knew she’d done something good.


End file.
